Return to Uncleton
His uncle had named the town Uncleton,
served as mayor for fifty years.
Except to tidy up the dog’s grave,
he goes back only for the annual
Rust Festival. He owns snapshots
of the Rust Queens and their Oxidized Courts
from the last twenty years. The lake looks
different from before and smells.
His trousers slip off his buttocks,
and teenagers laugh, their goddamned
music thumping out of cars. He’s inherited
just a pinch of his uncle’s rage
but no property. The sun off the lake
makes him scowl. Where exactly is
the dog’s grave? He remembers how,
just a pup, the little bastard nipped him.
Uncleton, O Uncleton, I hate the way you
draw me back like english on a cue ball.